But the music itself and the words of the grand old hymns she was
playing gradually crept into her soul and helped her, so that when the
lame stranger made at last his slow progress up to the choir loft and
stood beside her she was able to be coolly polite and explain briefly
to him how the organ controlled the action of the bells.
He listened to her, standing in open admiration, his handsome careless
face with its unmistakable look of self indulgence was lighted up with
genuine admiration for the beautiful girl who could play so well, and
could talk equally well about her instrument, quite as if it were
nothing at all out of the ordinary run of things that she were doing.
Opal, sitting in the front pew, where she had dropped to wait till her
escort should be satisfied, watched him at first discontentedly,
turning her eyes to the girl, half wondering, half sneering, till all
at once she perceived that the girl was not hearing the hot words of
admiration poured upon her, was not impressed in the least by the man,
did not even seem to know who he was--or care. How strange. What a very
strange girl! And really a beautiful girl, too, she saw, now that her
natural jealousy was for the moment averted. How extremely amusing.
Laurie Shafton interested in a girl who didn't care a row of pins about
him. What a shouting joke! She must take it back to his friends at the
shore, who would kid him unmercifully about it. The thing had never
been known in his life before. Perhaps, too, she would amuse herself a
little, just as a pastime, by opening the eyes of this village maiden
to the opportunity she was missing? Why not? Just on the verge of his
departure perhaps.
And now, with tender touch, the music grew softer and dropped into the
sorrowful melody: "The mistakes of my life have been many,
The sins of my heart have been more,
But I come as He has bidden.
And enter the open door.
I know I am weak and sinful,
It comes to me more and more
But since the dear Saviour has bid me come in
I'll enter the open door."
It was one of the songs they used to sing together, Mark and she, on
Sunday afternoons just as the sun was dropping behind the western
mountain, and Marilyn played it till the bells seemed to echo out a
heart's repentance, and a great forgiveness to one far, far away.
At its first note the song was recognized by Mark Carter as he drove
along through the night and it thrilled him to his sad sick soul. It
was as if she had spoken to him, had swept his heart strings with her
white fingers, had given him her sweet wistful smile, and was calling
to him through the dark. As they came in sight of the church Billy
pulled his cap a little lower and tried to keep the choke out of his
throat. Somehow the long hours without sleep or food, the toil, the
anxiety, the reaction, had suddenly culminated in a great desire to
cry. Yes, cry just like a baby! Why, even when he was a baby he
didn't cry, and now here was this sickening gag in his throat, this
smarting in his eyelids, this sinking feeling. He cast an eye at Cart.
Why, Cart looked that way too. Cart was feeling it also. Then he wasn't
ashamed. He gulped and smudged his dirty hand across his smarting eyes,
and got a long streak of wet on the back of his hand which he hastily
dried on the side of his sweater, and so they sat, two still dark
figures travelling along quietly through the night, for Carter had shut
off the engine and let the natural incline of the road carry them down
almost in front of the church.